


Layers of Varnish

by starwarned



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Nail Polish, Not Canon Compliant, POV Alternating, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Pining Simon Snow, Roommates, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, Watford (Simon Snow), Watford Seventh Year, they're soft! I said it!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25628176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starwarned/pseuds/starwarned
Summary: Not that I’m embarrassed about what I’m doing. I’m really not. I just don’t think I can handle Simon bothering me about it today. I’ll end up making out with him.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 13
Kudos: 263





	Layers of Varnish

**Author's Note:**

> it was in this fic that I recognized my obsession with using parentheses and italics. sorry y’all, my writing is so chaotic that it can’t survive without them.

**BAZ**

  
  


Simon should be gone for the night if I did my calculations correctly. I’d overheard him and Bunce talking about cramming until the wee hours of the morning (Penelope’s words, not mine), so I figure I have some time alone. 

Not that I’m embarrassed about what I’m doing. I’m really not. I just don’t think I can handle Simon bothering me about it today. I’ll end up making out with him. 

It feels like he’s been fucking teasing me all day. He didn’t put on a shirt until right before he left for class so I was subject to staring at his torso and trying to pretend that I wasn’t incredibly turned on all morning. At breakfast, he brushed past me while he was getting a second helping (he’s predictable) and placed his hand so gently on my lower back, just to alert me of his presence. (As I’m not acutely aware of where he is at any given moment). My skin was singing for an hour after he stopped touching me. 

And to top it all off, Bunce gave him a lollipop to suck on after classes. A fucking _lollipop_. It was practically pornographic the way he was sucking on it all afternoon. I couldn’t take my eyes off of his damn mouth and every time he caught me staring, I made some snarky comment about how I’d murder him if he drooled on the carpet. 

Finally, Simon left to meet up with Bunce, dropping the lollipop stick into the bin. I have half a mind to grab it out of the bin and put the leftover candy into my own mouth. It’d be the closest I’d ever get to having his mouth on mine. 

I don’t dig through the bin to get the lollipop stick. Instead, I do what I planned on doing - painting my nails. I fuss through the drawer in my desk to find the black varnish that I’ve been using since I was twelve. Typically, I don’t wear nail varnish while at Watford, simply because it doesn’t keep up with my really clean and polished look in my uniform. I’d have to repaint my nails every day in order to keep them looking really nice (and actually, I really like the way it looks when the black varnish starts to chip a little bit, but that’s for the summer months when I can wear jeans and not my uniform every day). 

I’ve been so stressed over Simon today that I convince myself I deserve this. Once I’ve painted the first two nails, I remember how much I like the look of it. I have other colours of varnish (some that you wouldn’t expect a moody, gay vampire to own), but I tend to use the darker ones because they contrast nicely against my skin tone. In addition, I don’t need anyone thinking I’m soft because I’m wearing pink nail varnish. 

I finish up my left hand, admiring my handiwork and blowing on them so they’ll dry faster. 

The door slams open and Simon appears, huffing like he’s just fought a dragon. 

**SIMON**

  
  


Penelope Bunce has been taking my bullshit for years. But today, she’s not dealing with it as well as she normally does. 

“And _then_ , Penny, _then_ he-” 

“Nicks and Slicks, Simon, shut up about Baz!” 

I stop, hands frozen in an animated position above the table (I’m an avid hand-talker). I slowly drop my hands to my notebook and do as she says, not saying a word. 

“You’re obsessed with him,” Penny says, dropping her head into her hands like I’ve just disappointed her beyond measure. “We’ve talked about how much Baz is allowed into our conversations and you’ve crossed the threshold by a solid fourty-five percent.” 

I open my mouth to argue but shut it again because I know she’ll just be mad. I am not obsessed with Baz. If anything, _he’s_ obsessed with taking me out. I’ve recently discovered his most recent plan and had been relaying it to Penny before she stopped me. 

Penelope continues. “Do you know how fucking thick you are?” 

“What do you mean?” I ask. 

She throws her hands in the air. “I don’t know how to get through to you, Si. You sound like a nutter with this whole new Baz plot conspiracy.” 

“It makes _sense_ , Penny!” I reach over and shove more than half a scone into my mouth. We made it down to the dining hall before it’s too late and we have it basically to ourselves. Cook Pritchard was kind enough to grab me some extra cherry scones and heat them up for me. 

“No, it doesn’t! Why would Baz _pretend_ to be attracted to you in order to take you down?” 

When she says it out loud, it sounds a bit mental. But I’m pretty secure in my theory. I’ve been trying to bother Baz all day - I didn’t wear a shirt for as long as possible this morning just to see if he’d be affected, I kept brushing past him at breakfast, and when Penny gave me a lollipop, I sucked on it as obscenely as possible. I felt a little dirty for that last one, but also kind of hot and bothered just thinking about the implications. I could tell that Baz was staring at me. 

“He’s trying to get into my head,” I explain. I don’t understand why Penny doesn’t get it. “I know he’s just fucking with me.” 

Penny rolls her eyes and looks down at her work. I haven’t looked at mine for the past fifteen minutes, and I know I’m not going to get anything done. I do feel bad for talking nonstop about my evil roommate, but he’s kind of all I can think about. He has been for years. 

I feel sweaty and overheated. Penelope and I don’t really argue (she calls me stupid and reckless at least three times a day, but I don’t usually counter that at all), so this is an unusual situation for us to be in. I stand up, finishing the scone I started earlier, and gather up my things. I give Penny one last look, but she’s staring down at her homework, twisting her ring around her finger anxiously. 

The closer I get to Mummers House, the more upset I feel. I’m trying to calm down because this is _not_ something to go off about, but my skin feels absolutely too hot. As I climb the stairs, I think about seeing Baz and oddly enough, it subdues a lot of the panic I’ve been feeling, even if it’s not gone completely. I still feel achy and hot. 

I slam the door open and find Baz painting his nails at his desk. Not what I expected. 

“What are you doing?” I snarl. I don’t mean to sound that antagonistic, but seeing Baz sit in our room looking innocent as a goddamn flower makes me feel some type of way. 

Baz sneers at me. (A familiar and not unwelcome sight). “What does it bloody look like, Snow? I assume you have eyes that function?” 

I roll my (very much functioning) eyes and step past him, not saying anything (which means I’ve lost and Baz knows it), and sit down on the edge of my bed, kicking off my shoes and tugging my uniform jacket from my shoulders. I roll up the sleeves of my shirt and undo the top three buttons. I still feel like I’m radiating too much heat. 

I look over at Baz and watch him paint his nails. He’s using a black varnish (boring, but oh so Baz-like) and from where I’m sitting, it looks perfectly applied. Of course it’s perfect. _He’s_ perfect. 

I make a snap decision and sit up off my bed, stepping over to Baz so I’m standing just to the side of his chair. He doesn’t look up at me, but his hand stops for a split second, so I know he’s aware of and bothered by my presence. I rarely stand this close to him. 

“Need something?” Baz asks. Snarky bastard. 

“Actually, yeah,” I say, surprising myself. What am I doing? I don’t need anything and now I have to come up with something or Baz is going to win a miniature argument for the second time tonight. “Will you paint my nails?” 

Baz finally looks at me, frowning. I notice as his eyes flick over the collar of my shirt. I swear to Merlin that he’s checking out my collarbone. I feel oddly proud of that. 

“Fine,” he finally says. “Bring your chair over.” 

This really isn’t what I expected, but I’m curious as to where it’ll go. Plus, I’ve never had my nails painted. I hope Baz has colours other than _black_. I grab the chair from my desk and drag it over to his, plopping down into it. 

“Hand,” Baz says. It’s like a business transaction. 

“Don’t you have to finish yours?” I ask, feeling nervous about letting Baz touch my hands. I feel like I won’t be able to control myself if he touches me. He’s just finished off the first coat on both of his hands, but I can tell it still looks a bit streaky.

Baz holds out his palm. “I have to let the first coat dry. Give me your hand. What colour do you want?” 

I slip my hand into his. I don’t know why I’m holding my breath. “What do you have?” 

This all feels so incredibly pedestrian. This is something that _friends_ do. Baz and I have never been friends. I doubt we ever will be. He tightens his grip slightly, just enough to hold my hand in his, as he moves to open the drawer to his left, pulling out a couple of bottles of varnish. 

I motion to the yellow. Baz picks it up and shakes the bottle with his free hand before looking down at my hand in his. He sets down the bottle quickly. 

“ _Aleister Crowley_ , Snow, your cuticles are a war zone,” he says. 

I resist the urge to tug my hand out of his because Baz is already pulling something else from his drawer, still holding my hand fairly tightly. I don’t even know what that means. I remind myself to ask Penelope what cuticles are later. 

Baz uses some sort of oil on the skin just next to my nails (are those cuticles?) and blows on them to dry them off. 

God, it feels good. 

I’m in uncharted territory. 

Baz has some plastic tool that he uses to push back the skin by my nails, making them into a softer and more rounded shape. It doesn’t hurt, but the pressure kind of tickles. It doesn’t help that my hand feels _itchy_ in Baz’s. 

Once Baz is done, he paints a base clear coat on my nails, holding each of my fingers between his cool ones as he does so. I’ve never thought about how cold Baz’s skin is (I’ve only come in contact with it a few times - when my arm brushes past him, when I punched him in the nose, and a handful of others). 

Once he starts to paint the actual colour on my nails, I’m stuck staring at his face. Baz looks like this all the time - concentrating - with his brow knit and his jaw set, but his hair is falling into his face and he’s not bothering to brush it away. I surprise myself a bit with the desire to tuck the hair behind his ear. It’s just a fleeting thought, but now I find myself distracted by the soft shape of his hair curling around his face and the sharp angles of his cheekbones and nose. 

By the time Baz has finished the first coat of yellow varnish, he moves my hands to lay flat against the desk. “Don’t touch,” he says, and the demand doesn’t have the usual mean edge that I’ve come to expect from Baz. 

I watch as he paints a second coat of black on his own nails, painstakingly cleaning up any mistakes. To be honest, I can barely notice the mistakes. His fucking violinist fingers are graceful and thin and very deftly apply the varnish like he’s been studying it for years. Steady hands.

I reach up to itch my nose and Baz snaps his eyes to me and reaches up to swat my hand away. “Don’t fucking touch,” he insists. “You’ll ruin them.” He places his hand back on the table and checks that he hasn’t ruined his own work. 

I can’t help a small smile take over the bottom half of my face. These are all things he’d say to me under normal circumstances, but because he’s oddly _soft_ right now, he’s got no venom behind his words. It doesn’t hurt for once. 

He blows on his nails, but doesn’t look at me (which I’m a lot more used to). Once my first coat is dry, he paints a second layer of yellow on my nails, leaning in close enough that his breath hits the tips of my fingers, warm in contrast with his cold skin. 

As Baz paints a clear varnish on top of the black (which makes the color a lot more shiny, which I really like), I can’t stop myself from making a comment. It’s not my fault. Baz not shouting insults at me as well as touching my hands is making me soft in the head. 

“How do you manage to make black nail varnish look posh?” I blurt out. 

“You think I look posh?” Baz raises a long, delicate eyebrow at me. (How do they look that nice and _shapely_? Can I refer to an eyebrow as shapely?) 

I want to roll my eyes, but I hold back. “You know you look posh, Basil,” I insist. 

He doesn’t argue. Instead, he squeezes my fingers softly and finishes up painting my nails. I carefully lay them on my thighs so I won’t be tempted to fuck them up. Baz paints a clear coat on his nails as well and copies me by placing his hands on his thighs, turning in his chair to face me head on. 

He looks at me. 

I feel like Baz hasn’t looked at me until now. I mean, sometimes I catch him glaring at the back of my head, and he’ll frown at me from across the dining hall, but we’ve never made eye contact for more than twenty-five seconds before. 

It’s definitely been longer than twenty-five seconds. 

“Yellow’s your colour, Snow,” Baz says, eyes flicking down to my hands, like he needs an excuse to look away from my face. I can’t tell if he’s taking the piss or not. 

“Thanks.” 

The thought hits me and I blink like I’ve been smacked in the face. _I want to kiss him._ There’s something about the way that Baz has been so soft with me, his cool fingers brushing against my warm ones, and the fact that he painted my nails without insulting me (well, mostly not insulting me). He’s got all these graceful lines in his face - his curved eyebrows, the outline of his jaw and cheekbones, his lips. Christ, his lips. They’re grey and pink, softly formed into a pout right now, and I’ve never wanted to run my tongue over anything this badly in my life. 

I try and force the desire down, but I can’t help but be _incredibly_ aware of how close he is to me. If I tilted my head to the left, even just a little bit, I’d be able to feel his breath on my cheek. 

“You can take it off, if you want.” 

I furrow my brow a bit. “What do you mean?” 

“The varnish,” Baz clarifies. 

“Why would I want to take it off?” 

Baz looks down at his own nails. “I don’t know, Snow, but you’re going to get shit for being a bloke and having painted nails. Just, if you don’t want that, I have acetone.” 

I don’t know what acetone is, but I don’t like how _nervous_ Baz looks when talking to me about taking off the varnish. 

“I like it,” I insist. “Why would anyone give me shit?” 

Baz shakes his head like I’m an idiot. (He shakes his head like that a lot). (I deserve it most of the time). “Close-minded morons will think you’re gay, Snow, so if you’re willing to be subjected to that, then be my guest.” 

I’ve never thought of myself as gay. I guess I’ve never thought of myself as anything. (I’ve been kind of busy). But the way that wanting to kiss Baz is taking over seventy-eight percent of my brain might make me a little bit gay. 

I shrug. “Let them think that. I don’t care, Baz. I like it.” 

Baz looks up at me, a little surprised. I like that I can still surprise him. 

“Right,” he says. He doesn’t look away from me again and I can’t help but scoot forward in my chair a bit. 

I raise my hand up and look at them closer. He did a really great job. “They look good, Baz. I don’t mind showing them off.” 

The corners of Baz’s mouth tilt up and out of his typical pout. It looks strange on him, but also nice. I lean my face closer. I’m sure he knows what I’m up to. (At this point, I don’t even know what I’m up to. I just want to feel his breath on my face). 

**BAZ**

I know what Simon’s up to. He’s been teasing me all fucking day and now he’s trying to see if I’ll take the bait. I’m _not_ going to kiss him.

Thank magic I haven’t fed in a day in a half or else my face would be bright red. 

Simon’s warm breath (Crowley, his hands are warm, his personality’s warm - what about this boy _isn’t_ warm?) spreads across my face and I stop myself from breathing him in too deeply. I don’t want to look like an idiot while I’m this close to him. 

“Snow,” I say. 

Simon fucking Snow kisses me. At first, I’m completely convinced I’m having a stroke and my brain is creating a comforting scenario to lull me into a false sense of security while my organs shut down. But then- fuck, his tongue is brushing against my bottom lip and I open my mouth, my heart, my bloody soul to this idiot. 

He’s just as warm as I thought (as I _dreamt_ ) he’d be. 

If I had any dignity left over, I’d pull away and pretend I wasn’t affected by this. I clearly don’t have any dignity so I put my hands on either side of Simon’s thighs, just to hold onto him (while not ruining my nails, of course). He reciprocates and places his hands on my cheeks. (I knew I’d die in flames, but I didn’t think it’d be from how _hot_ Simon’s skin is. I’d gladly go by way of a fiery death if this is the path I’m destined for). 

I snap out of it because Simon’s right hand starts to slide up my face, his fingers brushing my ear. 

I tug back sharply. “Don’t!”

Simon’s eyes jerk open. “What?” he asks, yanking his hands away from my cheeks and suspending them in the air. 

“You’re going to get varnish in my hair,” I breathe out. 

I’m halfway worried Simon’s going to punch me, but he surprises me (he’s been doing that a lot today) and starts giggling. It’s soft at first, but the longer I stare at him, the more he’s unable to control himself and he’s soon _guffawing_ (I don’t use that word lightly), rocking back and forth in his chair. 

I cross my arms over my chest and sit back in my chair. I know he’s fucking laughing at me and I hate that he looks so goddamn pretty while he’s being an arsehole. 

Once Simon’s calmed down, with only the occasional hiccup of a laugh, he looks at me with fondness in his eyes. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s just-” he cuts himself off with another giggle. “I, your self proclaimed mortal enemy, just kissed you, and you’re worried about me ruining your hair and my nails?” 

I admit it sounds silly, but I’m not dealing with him this way. “You’ve never had to get nail varnish out of your hair, Snow,” I say, trying to ignore the taste of Snow still on my lips (spoiler: I can’t). 

Simon smiles at me again, like this is the most comfortable thing in the world to him. 

“Can I tell you something?” Simon asks.

I frown a little bit. “Sure.” 

Simon flattens his hands against the tops of his thighs again, but just on the edge of them so his fingertips are pressing against my knees. “I created a whole storyline in my head that you were plotting against me by pretending to be attracted to me.”

Now I want to laugh. I don’t because it’s so embarrassingly sad that he thought that. “And what did Bunce think about that?” 

Simon rolls his eyes. “She thought it was mental.” 

“I’d have to agree with her.” I take in as much air as my lungs can handle. “I wasn’t pretending,” I breathe out. It feels like the biggest admission I’ve ever made.

Simon’s hands shift over so they’re resting on my knees. “Really?” he asks. 

I don’t want to repeat myself so I just nod. 

Simon grins. “So I was onto something by teasing you today?” 

My mouth falls open and I have to look away for just a moment. “You fucking did that on purpose?” I demand, pouting. 

Simon blushes (and I swear to Aleister Crowley, I want him to blush for the rest of his life, it’s so beautiful). “Yeah,” he says. “I had to prove that I was right!” 

I lean back in my chair further, letting my head fall back. “You were right,” I say, dejected. 

Simon takes one hand off my thigh and grabs at my collar, tugging me forward enough so our faces are close together again. “I know,” he says. He eyes me and then grins toothily. “You know, that’s maybe the first time you’ve ever said I was right.” 

“This is the first time you’ve ever _been_ right.” I want to kiss him, just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke. 

Simon laughs a little bit. (I’m starting to really like that sound). “You’re just stubborn,” he says, and doesn’t give me a chance to argue (and I was about to) before he’s kissing me again. He keeps his hands on my thighs and I press mine carefully against his neck. 

I know I’d do anything to run my fingers through his hair, but that’ll have to wait. As much as I like him, I’m not ruining my nails for Simon Snow.


End file.
